Among Thieves

by John Clarkson

  In twenty-four hours, he and one of the hottest women he’d ever met would be in Geneva, rich enough to disappear, travel the world, fuck in the best hotels ever built, and indulge whatever desire that might interest them for the rest of their lives.

  83

  Olivia didn’t have to fake being exhausted.

  She had concentrated on filling out the last fax that would wire transfer the final block of money from the Cayman bank to the Belize bank. Then she sat back and watched Beck carefully fax the order to the Cayman bank while he talked it through with the Krebs bank vice president in Belize in charge of Summit’s affairs. The Krebs VP promised to follow through with HSBC in Cayman.

  When he was done, she gave Beck a wan smile and let out a long slow breath of relief. At that moment, they were the only two people who knew the account number and passwords for the Belize bank account. The money was safe.

  Beck nodded his acknowledgment.

  Olivia felt the attraction that had existed between them like an electric current. She wondered if Beck would survive Markov’s next attempt to hunt him down. This time Markov would have even more motivation.

  “I’m fried,” she said. “I’ve got to lay down. I don’t care where. Anywhere is fine.”

  “Use my bedroom,” said Beck.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Finish up and crash on one of the couches.”

  Olivia resisted the urge to invite him upstairs. She nodded and headed for the stairwell.

  When she got to Beck’s bedroom, she closed the door behind her. Then for added security she went into his bathroom and locked that door. While writing out the last fax, she’d copied the bank account number, customer ID, and access codes of the Belize bank account on a separate piece of paper, which she’d slipped into her back pocket. Now she texted them to Alan Crane’s phone.

  She had no idea if he had freed himself from Markov and his guards, but he soon would. From then on, it was up to him to get the money out of Belize and into the Swiss bank account they had set up two months prior.

  She was too tired to shower. She was down to her last change of clothes anyhow. She tore up her notepaper, flushed it down the toilet, washed her hands and face, and settled onto Beck’s bed, fully clothed except for her shoes. She checked her watch. Two minutes after twelve. The plane for Switzerland left at 7:10 p.m. She had plenty of time. Grab a couple of hours sleep. Tell Beck she had to go home. She would catch up with him later. Don’t ask about money. Don’t ask for a cut. Just ask for her car. Say good-bye to Manny. Thank him as if he’d saved her life. Get her Porsche back and leave.

  Her bags were already packed. Shower, change, close down the apartment, store the car as planned, take a limo to JFK and meet Alan.

  Her eyes fluttered shut. She felt the exhaustion coming over her. She fought it off, reached for her cell phone. Erase the text message, she told herself. Jeezus, don’t screw up now.

  She erased the entire string to Crane. Set the phone to wake her at 2 p.m. Two hours sleep would have to do. She pictured herself resting in a private pod on crisp white sheets with a fresh pillow in the first class section of Swissair. Sleep came almost instantly.

  84

  Beck was so tired his jaws ached. The local anesthetic on his bullet wounds had worn off and the increasing pain was draining him. But there was no time for sleep.

  He thought about taking another bottle of the energy drink, but he didn’t think his stomach could take it. For a moment, he thought about closing his eyes for just fifteen minutes. No, no way, he told himself. Have to be awake when Markov calls.

  He stood up and went over to the windows facing Conover Street. He pulled the window wide open using just his right arm, but the movement still made his left arm twinge. He stood in the frigid air breathing long, slow deep breaths for a full minute.

  He felt better. Awake. Closed the window and began slowly walking around the second floor.

  He went through everybody’s next role. One by one, he went over it in his mind. All of them would be facing danger, except for him. Now it was Beck’s job to make sure this battle would end, that they’d be safe, and that everything they had done was worth it.

  His phone rang. Beck checked the ID. Blocked. He took a chance, wanting to gain whatever edge he could.

  “Mr. Markov.”

  There was a pause, then—“How you know it was me?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “You sent Gregor’s man Ahmet to my driver with a message to call you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume it’s about my money.”

  “It is.”

  “You have it.”

  “I do.”

  There was a pause. Crane had been right.

  “Now what?”

  “Now we meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so.”

  “So you can kill me, too.”

  “If I wanted to kill you, Mr. Markov, you’d already be dead.”

  Another pause. “Why do you want to meet me?”

  “To finish this.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you meet me face-to-face and hear what I have to say.”

  “Where?”

  “Milstein’s office. Be there at two o’clock. Not a minute later. Don’t bring any weapons. Don’t bring any thugs, or I guarantee, I absolutely promise—I will kill you.”

  “I believe you,” said Markov.

  * * *

  Beck drove the Mercury into Manhattan with both front windows open to keep him awake. Parked it in a garage on Fifty-seventh Street just east of Lex. Made his way to the twenty-eighth floor.

  The receptionist was expecting him. She directed him to the main conference room.

  It was a large room with a conference table big enough for fifteen people. It offered a view of Manhattan facing south. The day was rather mild for February. And overcast. The view limited by mist and fog.

  Beck wasn’t interested in looking out any windows.

  Near the head of the table sat Markov, looking worse than ever. He was covered with a veneer of sweat. His clothes looked like he had been on the run for a couple of days. Beck could smell the man by the time he reached the middle of the room.

  Opposite Markov sat Frederick Milstein in his usual business attire of dress shirt, tie, and suit pants. He sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on the conference table, trying to look like he mattered. The chair next to Milstein was filled by the large bulk of Walter Pearce.

  Beck took the seat at the head of the table.

  He turned to Walter Pearce. “Are we all set, Walter?”

  “I delivered your message, Mr. Beck.” Walter looked at his watch. “At twelve-forty-five as requested.”

  He turned to Milstein. “And you spoke to the bank in Belize, Mr. Milstein?”

  “Listen, who do you think…?”

  Beck raised his voice. “Be quiet. Walter, did it go as planned?”

  “Yes. I gave Mr. Milstein the account information; Mr. Milstein gave them the order. The man he spoke to seemed to know Mr. Milstein. Their conversation was on speakerphone.”

  “And Mr. Milstein seemed to know the man at the bank.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Milstein told the Kreb’s bank office what, exactly?”

  Before Pearce could answer, Milstein said, “Listen. I want to know the meaning of all this. I don’t appreciate taking instructions like this.”

  Beck held up a hand. He placed his Browning on the conference room table. “If you don’t want to answer my questions, just shut up. Mr. Pearce?”

  “He told them that a wire transfer request would be coming in today to transfer out the money in that account.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that the bank should tell whoever ordered the wire transfer that the money would be sent out end-of-day today for deposit. And that funds would be available at the opening of bank hours Monday morning. But, after they told that t
o whoever ordered the wire transfer, they should ignore that wire order and lock down the account.”

  “That was the conversation?”

  “Yes. Apparently, Summit has a good deal of money in that bank, so they agreed.”

  “Did you have to put a gun to Mr. Milstein’s head?”

  Pearce smiled and said, “No. Not really.”

  Milstein squirmed in his seat, fighting the urge to say something.

  Beck took an envelope out of his back pocket. He slid it across the table to Pearce, who picked up the envelope and slipped it into his suit coat pocket without looking at it.

  Beck said, “So, we’re all settled then.”

  Pearce nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “I’m sure you have other things to attend to, Mr. Pearce.”

  “Catching up on my sleep, for starters.”

  Pearce looked at both Markov and Milstein for a beat, pushed back his chair, and lumbered out of the conference room. He didn’t look back.

  As soon as Pearce was gone, Beck said to Milstein. “Mr. Milstein, you can leave now, too.”

  That did it. Milstein sat up straight and yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here giving me orders. Giving Pearce orders. Running an account up here. I should have you arrested.”

  Beck had to work hard to contain his fury. He picked up the Browning, racked a bullet into the chamber, and aimed it at Milstein’s head. Milstein flinched and put up a hand.

  Markov grimaced and pushed back his chair a foot.

  Beck spoke quietly, his voice constricted with rage and disgust. This pompous little man had caused him immeasurable trouble, starting with lying to him, setting him up to walk into an ambush at Crane’s, sending the cops after him and his men in an attempt to have them killed or sent back to jail. Through clenched teeth he uttered one word: “Leave.”

  The gun paralyzed Milstein. Markov broke in, yelling, “Get out, Frederick. Now. Get out. Do nothing. Do you understand? Do nothing and wait in your office for me. Now.”

  Milstein left.

  As soon as they were alone, Beck put back the Browning on the table and said, “So, Mr. Markov, about your hundred and sixteen million dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me explain a few things to you, starting with the fact that I am not a thief.”

  85

  The alarm on Olivia’s iPhone had a gentle ringtone. Gentle, but insistent. It awakened her, but it took nearly thirty seconds of steady chiming to pull her out of the deep sleep she’d fallen into.

  She felt around on the bed for the phone and managed to turn it off with her eyes closed. She made sure to sit up and get her feet on the floor so that she wouldn’t fall back to sleep.

  She forced herself to stand and walk to the bathroom, her gait unsteady.

  She rested both hands on the sink basin and let the water run, and rinsed her face with cold water. She felt groggy and numb, but the cold water helped clear her head. She took a deep breath, pushing herself into an alert state.

  When she gazed up at the mirror over the bathroom sink, she muttered, “Shit.”

  I’ll have time to put myself together when I get home. I’m not leaving New York looking like this.

  She gathered her large purse, put on her shoes, and made her way down to the second floor. The entire floor was empty. It felt strange to her. There had been so much commotion, so many men moving around, arriving, leaving, and now nothing.

  She really didn’t care. Where was Manny? She needed her car keys. And she had to convince him she was just going home to change and sleep and wait for whatever they wanted her to do.

  She went down the back stairs looking for Manny, thinking about how to play it just right. What to say about the money. Something along the lines that she was glad she could help them stick it to Markov. Don’t even bring up the topic of how much of it they were going to give her. Let him think she didn’t care. That she trusted him and Beck to do the right thing by her. Yes, she’d caused them a huge amount of trouble, but in the end it had paid off.

  She found Manny in the small bar kitchen, sitting at his old wooden table. He had a black coffee in front of him, two cubes of brown sugar on the table next to the coffee.

  “Cousin Manny.”

  “Novia. Sit.”

  “I’m exhausted. I gotta get home. I gotta change, clean up, get some sleep.”

  “Sit,” he repeated.

  It was at that moment, the way he said that one word, that Olivia Sanchez knew he knew. Her plan of eight years, all her maneuvering, all her machinations had come down to this moment. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing was going to stop her now.

  “Do you have my car keys?” she asked as she moved toward the table.

  Manny motioned with his head toward a key rack next to the side door. She saw the keys to her Porsche. She took them off the rack, but made note of the fact that he didn’t tell her where the car was parked. It can’t be too far away, she thought. I’ll find it.

  She dropped the keys into her purse, as she sat down across from Manny. She left the purse unzipped, resting in her lap.

  Manny took a sip of the black coffee. Placing the cup down, warming his hands on the mug, he stared at Olivia, studying her face. His expression gave away very little, but Olivia knew.

  “You can’t go, Olivia.”

  “Why not?”

  “James says you lied to me.”

  She tried to look surprised. Confused. “About what?”

  “About everything. He says you and Crane were after the money all along.”

  “How can he say that?”

  Manny answered with a shrug.

  “Manny, that’s ridiculous. I don’t have the money. Crane doesn’t have the money. James has it. Where is he? Ask him. He has the money, not me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. James says you and Crane were after the money.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I don’t want to believe him,” said Manny.

  “Then don’t. It’s not true.”

  “So, when James gets back, you can explain it to him. And to me. Prove to him it’s not true. And to me.”

  Her hand was in the purse now.

  “When is he coming back?”

  “Not too long.”

  “So you want proof.”

  “I want proof.”

  “And you’re going to make me wait here.”

  “Yes. I want to know for sure.”

  Before he finished the sentence, Olivia pulled out a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver and shot Manny Guzman dead center in his chest.

  The smoke and flame and roar of the small pistol stunned her. But she pulled the trigger again. And again.

  The sound of the gunshots faded. She sat blinking at the gun smoke surrounding her, confused, her heart beating, her ears ringing, unable to comprehend the fact that Manny Guzman sat across the table, unmoved, staring at her.

  She had expected the bullets to knock him off his chair. She had expected blood. A cry of pain. But Manny continued to sit across from her, silent, staring at her, unmarked.

  And then Olivia Sanchez saw something she never imagined. Manny Guzman was crying. There was little expression on his stolid face, but tears were slowly rolling down his craggy cheeks, dripping off his jaws.

  He sniffed and wiped the tears away angrily.

  Olivia looked at the smoking gun in her hand. She looked at Manny. What had happened? Why was there no blood?

  Then she saw the compact, deadly Charter Arms revolver pointed at her. Manny was still crying when he shot her.

  This time, there was blood.

  86

  Beck told Markov everything that Olivia and Crane had done. Markov listened without interrupting. When Beck finished his careful explanation, he pulled a flash drive out of his shirt pocket and held it up for Markov to see.

  “The details of the transfers are on this drive, in case you need further proof.”

 
; “All right,” said Markov. “Now what?”

  “Now I explain to you my fee and my expenses.”

  “Your fee.”

  “Yes. I intend to get paid for returning your money to you.”

  Markov frowned.

  Beck continued. “Here’s how it’s going to work. At one-fifteen, after Milstein’s conversation with the bank, I reset all the IDs and passwords on the account. On this flash drive is also information on how to access an encrypted Web site. On that Web site, midday Monday morning, all the information you need to take control of your money will be displayed. Today is Friday. You’ll have a nice relaxing weekend, and then on Monday your money will be there for you to do what you want with it.”

  “I see. And your fee?”

  “Twenty percent. Nonnegotiable.”

  “Expenses?”

  “Let’s call it two hundred thousand.”

  Markov continued to stare at Beck. “You want twenty-three million, four hundred thousand.”

  “Twenty-three million, four hundred eighty-five thousand, four hundred, thirty-four. You want the thirty-four bucks, call it twenty-three, four eighty-five, four.”

  Markov kept his unwavering gaze at Beck. “Why don’t you just kill me and keep it all?”

  “First of all, because I doubt all that money is yours. I got a feeling whatever branch of our government you’re running arms for has a good chunk of their money mixed in that account. Maybe it’s money they paid for future purchases. Maybe it’s operating funds. Who knows? But I’d rather not have to worry about some clandestine wing of the U.S. government coming after me for their money.

  “Second, like I said, I’m not a thief. It’s not my money. Two people at Summit conspired to steal it. I’ve already explained how. I got it back for you. So I earned a commission.

  “Lastly, I’m going to go on the assumption that when this all started, you would have preferred not to kill me. You could have shot me up at Crane’s loft, but you didn’t. My take is you fired those shots to keep me from leaving, but not to kill me. Am I right?”